


Dropped My Paintbrush in the Dirt

by dancinguniverse



Category: True Detective
Genre: Daughters, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/pseuds/dancinguniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rust can still feel the weight of the girl in his arms, but it’s not Marty’s daughter he’s remembering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dropped My Paintbrush in the Dirt

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Dropped My Paintbrush in the Dirt 画笔蒙尘](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493977) by [Virgil (alucard1771)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alucard1771/pseuds/Virgil)



It’s Sunday afternoon and the sun stretches long golden fingers into the Harts’ backyard. Rust’s fingers are wet from the condensation beading on the glass of iced tea Maggie poured for him. He would have been content to stay basking in the sunlight on the patio but Marty gets up to start the grill. His voice, caught in the middle of a story, tugs Rust across the yard with him. He follows Marty over the neatly mowed lawn, bringing the slippery glass of tea with him. He listens absently to Marty's story, but his eyes are drawn to the side of the yard. Audrey is climbing a tree and Macie stands at the bottom peering up after her. Marty’s reminiscing about tailgating and too much blackberry brandy from back when he and Maggie had just started dating. Rust's eyes flicker back when Marty laughs at himself and pulls the lid off the grill with a clang, shaking a pile of charcoal out of its bag. Across the yard, Macie jumps up, arms straining, but she can’t gain enough height to reach even the lowest limb, and Audrey sprinkles leaves down on her from her high perch. Macie’s voice spirals up in pitch with her frustration, face going red. Rust waits for the inevitable explosion.

“Play nice!” Marty interrupts his story to yell over, and Audrey leaves off teasing her sister, dropping the rest of the leaves in a pile. She uncurls her legs from around the tree branch, hangs for a moment as if from the monkey bars, and then drops to the ground. Macie throws some of the leaves back at her and then they’re racing off in a circle around the house, shrieks piercing the air. Marty near drowns the charcoal with lighter fluid, maybe because he doesn’t trust it to catch otherwise or maybe just because he likes fire. Rust figures it's about even odds. Marty holds a match to the crumpled newspaper beneath the grate and the flames climb eagerly. Soon they’re leaping as tall as Marty’s head. He wipes his charcoal-stained fingers on his hips, leaving little black smears on his jeans. He's proud of his work, and Rust finds that both pathetic and oddly comforting.

“Don’t guess you got a lot of barbeques in Alaska,” Marty speculates, watching the fire critically and waving away a curl of smoke.

Rust shrugs and takes a sip of his tea. “That was due more to my pop’s particular lifestyle. They do have summer up there, even if it’s a joke compared to these parts. We went camping plenty, hunting and fishing trips. Cooked outside all the time. Just not sure it’s what you’d deem a proper cookout down here.”

Marty looks around the yard, then wanders off a bit to grab two lawn chairs from where they lean against the shed. “You know,” he calls, “you’re one of those people the more you know about their past, the more sense they start to make.”

Rust doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close. “How’s that?” he asks, just to see what Marty will say.

The background cries of the girls suddenly burst on Rust’s ears, and then Macie ’s tearing through practically under his arm, screaming something about bugs and hurtling directly toward the open grill. Rust catches her with one arm around her chest, hand under her armpit, scooping her into the air without a thought. Her shriek cuts off in surprise, and for two seconds, maybe three, Rust is holding her against his chest. He can feel her tiny heart thudding against his arm, her skin peach soft under his fingers. She’s bigger than Sophia ever made, heavier in his arm and with legs than hang down to bang against his knees, but she has the same magical fragility as his daughter. No need for metaphors about spun glass and baby birds; there isn’t anything more terrifyingly breakable than a human child.

Rust's chest is suddenly tight. He turns and lowers her to the ground away from the grill, then straightens again quickly. His hand is wet where his tea slopped over the edge of the glass.

“What have I told you?” Marty demands, looming over Macie. “No horsing around when there’s a fire going. Go play by the swingset.” He runs his hand over her hair, tugging on her tiny ponytail, and pushes her butt towards the other side of the yard. “Go on!” She goes, immediately yelling again for her sister.

Marty shakes his head. “They keep you on your toes for sure.” He hands Rust one of the lawn chairs, shaking the other out for himself and settling down into it, barely glancing after his daughter. Rust takes two tries to get his chair open. It wasn’t a very near miss. He had caught her before she’d gotten particularly close to the grill and he knows a kid her age can turn on a dime. Probably would have missed it by a mile without his intervention. That ain’t the problem.

He finally gets the chair open and sits down, gripping the armrest to stop his hand from shaking. He’s been at the house a half dozen times now, and while the girls haven’t scared him since before he met them that first time, he’s been content to watch them from afar. They have messy hands and mouths and they help Maggie out sometimes, sass her others, hang on Marty like they can’t see his hard edges. They showed brief interest in Rust but quickly lost it again when he made no overtures in their direction, and for that he’s been grateful. At a distance they give him a scrap of peace, a glimpse of the light still flashing out in an otherwise grim world. Close up, they’re just as terrifying as he’d thought that first night. Rust swallows. He can still feel the weight of the girl in his arms, but it's not Marty's daughter he’s remembering.

Marty scratches his neck idly. “You got that parental grab down pat.”

Rust was expecting Marty to go back to bugging him about Alaska or try to share office gossip, and wishes Marty would pick some other day to be perceptive for once in his life. “Yeah,” he grunts.

“Hell,” Marty laughs, but his voice is surprisingly gentle. “They don’t bite, man.”

Rust shakes his head, forcing a deep breath. They don’t need to. The memories are sharp enough on their own.


End file.
